


Five A.M. London Time

by lasuen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Drama, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Romance, Sickfic, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-11
Updated: 2012-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-18 10:44:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lasuen/pseuds/lasuen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of an incident John suffers from anterograde amnesia, which means that he loses “the ability to create new memories after the event that caused the amnesia, leading to a partial or complete inability to recall the recent past, while long-term memories from before the event remain intact”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five A.M. London Time

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Пять утра по лондонскому времени](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/13511) by eliah.jan. 



> A/N: The term “Korsakoff’s syndrome” is used in more than one sense: sometimes for denominating an array of symptoms, but also for defining a pathological process itself as well as the symptoms which include memory disorder and cognitive malfunction.
> 
> T/N: I'm eternally grateful to wonderful eliah.jan for giving me the permission to translate this beautiful piece of fanfiction. Also huge thanks to my beta thisisforyou.
> 
> Reviews are greatly appreciated! You can make three people very happy ;) Enjoy your reading!

  
**Five A.M. London Time**   


John Watson has no time anymore. He has neither past, nor future. Only one everlasting day.  
  
He has no fate anymore. Fate is a choice. His choice is reduced to nothing by the end of the day.  
  
There's only one day that exists for John now and it's the 22nd of October. The day when his brain was irreparably damaged, although he won't be able to realise it on his own. Yet, everyone else is aware of it, starting off with Mrs. Hudson, full of sympathy and food-filled trays, and up to DI Lestrade who, however awkwardly, does his best to cheer Sherlock up at least a bit. In between happens to be Anthea, whose face becomes just a tiniest bit human with emotion when she talks about John; even Mycroft furrows his eyebrows almost in a compassionate manner.  
  
Sherlock's face, though, hardens more and more with every passing day as John doesn't show any sign of improvement. "Don't you even think about blaming yourself, my dear." By no means, Mrs. Hudson, whatever has gotten into you. By no means.  
  
 _Silly old woman._  
  
"That horrible maniac is the only one to blame… well, you know."  
  
Of course, I know. Exactly.  
  
"John will get better, I'm sure of it." _Well, I am not._ No one is sure anymore. The trauma to his head is too severe; there's hardly a chance he'll recover. It's quite probable John's memory won't ever be the same.

— o —

He doesn't regain consciousness until the week after the incident. Scratches on his body are still in the process of healing, the head wound acquires a bit more natural appearance, but John is not waking up. Sherlock, who miraculously remained unscathed, is pacing nervously along the hospital corridor, complaining about everyone's blunders and stupidity. Along with the outrageous lack of professionalism.  
  
That's why on the day when John opens his eyes and looks able to get up from his bed on his own and without much difficulty, Sherlock takes him home. Pulling a few strings, he has John discharged from the hospital in no time. He even almost said please to one particular string up there.  
  
One very polite telephone call to Mycroft, and Sherlock, convinced as ever that nowadays doctors can hardly be trusted with as much as treating cattle, let alone John, takes his friend home, unheeding of the physician's disapproval. "I won't be in such a hurry if I were you. His craniocerebral injury can cause memory loss and other damages. These consequences are to be taken into account, given the circumstances of the trauma."  
  
"We'll manage. It is okay," snarls Sherlock at him. He truly believes so. It just can't not be alright. _It's John._  
  
"John, what day is it?" asks Sherlock in a severe voice.  
  
"I thought it was 22nd, but the doctors told me it was 28th."  
  
"First name, last name, relatives, military service?"  
  
"John Hamish Watson, sister Harriet, Qandahar… Sherlock, what's this, an interrogation?"  
  
"Just checking your memory. Favourite food?"  
  
"Noodles."  
  
Sherlock nods, contentedly.  
  
"Childhood memories?"  
  
"Oh Sherlock, come on! Do you want me to tell you about the nurse in my kindergarten, or how I got punched by Harriet for piercing her big blue ball by accident?"  
  
  "Alright, I see that you're of sound mind. Shall we get something to eat? I ordered a take away." The consulting detective spins around and disappears into the kitchen.

— o —

It's the next morning when Sherlock discovers the truth as John makes his way downstairs, genuinely startled.  
  
"Sherlock, why am I at home? Why not the hospital? Are my injures that insignificant?"  
  
Sherlock feared this question.  
  
"You were discharged yesterday. I took you home."  
  
John's eyebrows are knitted together.  
  
"I don't remember any of it."  
  
It takes Sherlock a few minutes to find out that John has perfect memory of his past, of the explosion and walls tumbling down on him; he remembers everything that led to the unfortunate event. But he does not remember yesterday. At all. As if someone slid an eraser down his skull and painstakingly wiped any information which entered his brain after waking up.  
  
  Sherlock swarms with a hive of conjectures and speculations. It is still early to sound the alarm. Tomorrow will tell if it's a pure accident or not.

— o —

The next morning John asks the exact same question. Down to a word.  
  
"Sherlock, why am I at home? Why not the hospital? Are my injures that insignificant?"  
  
For the following six days John keeps repeating the same question every morning, and every morning Sherlock has to patiently explain to him about the memory loss. First, there is skepticism in John's eyes, then suspicion, and still then his expression falls into a haze of ghostly acceptance. John is a doctor, after all. He knows Sherlock is not joking. In the end, still sincerely astonished, he accepts this information without, however, fully believing it. He hopes that tomorrow, when he wakes up, everything will be just fine.  
  
On the seventh day Sherlock starts leaving notes.  
  
He writes these little notes in his own hand, thoroughly forming the straight letters. The letters have to be legible. "Anterograde amnesia", the current date, right under it: "Read your blog", "Make a post about today in your blog!" stuck to his laptop screen, "McKinsey case" or something else if Sherlock told him about it on the previous day. He still hopes that John will remember at least something of the other day. It could be just the breakfast dish or the Inspector's shirt colour. Sometimes he scribbles: "Buy some chicken, John. And a bottle of peroxide – I need it for the case." John will go to grocery shop anyway. He always does.  
  
Sherlock sticks the notes to John's clothes when his friend is asleep. Just not to repeat the same thing all over again, day after day. Not to see this resignation in John's face which irritates Sherlock to no end.  
  
This tactic of his had its impact. Now as John makes his way downstairs into the sitting room, his eyes are calm. There are no questions anymore, but there have come days of another kind. Days, when after returning from a case, Sherlock finds John sitting on the settee with his head buried between his hands.  
  
"John?"  
  
"This is pointless," he says in a faint voice.  
  
Sherlock sits down next to him. Lately he always sits next to his friend, even knowing beforehand what is going to happen. He asks:  
  
"What is?"  
  
"Everything." John looks up, his eyes almost dark. "I'm not going to remember any of it tomorrow. Why should I live if I'm never going to remember anything that happens to me?"  
  
"You will. You'll get better. It's only a question of time." His voice is sure and calm. He has to lie again, but who would ever tell the truth in his place?  
  
"No." John looks away and stares out of the window, his cheek lit with the grey light. "I've found the results of the tests and the history of illness. It's a variation of Korsakoff's syndrome, isn't it? Similar injuries of hippocampus are incurable. The chance of recovery is almost nil." He turns to the detective again. "Sherlock, name at least one reason why I would want to live with it?"  
  
The question always baffles Sherlock. He doesn't know. He thinks himself as much.  
  
 _For me_ , he wants to say. Every time he wants to say that.  
  
  He never does.

— o —

On such days Sherlock Holmes prefers not to leave John alone even for a minute, not until his friend falls asleep. It must be the only time he's glad that John will forget all about their talk when the morning comes.  
  
The paper folder with all the tests and results Sherlock left in full view is hidden away so that John won't see it ever again. 

— o —

One day Sherlock can't help suggesting: "You should keep up with your blog."  
  
"But I _am_ writing in it," responds John in a calm voice, not looking up from his morning newspaper, still not noticing it's dated the 17th of November.  
  
"No, I meant you should write down everything that happens to you every day in details. You have amnesia, after all."  
  
"Sherlock." Finally, John looks up and sends a truly perplexed look in his friend's direction. "What amnesia? What on earth are you on about?"  
  
Sherlock takes a deep intake of breath, his shoulders heaving, and gets up from his chair moving to the window. He sits beside John, their knees touching, and for some reason puts his terracotta cup on the other edge of the table.  
  
"What day is it?"  
  
John turns his head and looks at Sherlock, goose bumps all over his legs. The question gives him the creeps and he feels a bit scared, as if engulfed by the sense of foreboding.  
  
"What do you mean, 'what day is it'?"  
  
"John, what day is it?" repeats Sherlock, his voice gloomy.  
  
"Hm… Well, yesterday was the 21st, so today must be the 22nd. What's the–"  
  
He doesn't have time to finish his question as the detective's fingers grab the newspaper out of his hands, fold it up and point out the date on the headline.  
  
"It's the 17th. November. John, today is the 17th of November, do you follow?"  
  
John doesn't. He can't understand where twenty four days got to.  
  
His glance travels back from the headline to Sherlock and back a few more times. John is so at a loss for what to say that Sherlock can't bear seeing him like this, so he stands up and leaves.  
  
  He goes upstairs to fetch those notes John contrived to miss. It's an excuse good enough, but he would have left anyway. Because it is too much.

— o —

 When Mycroft comes into their apartment, he does it very quietly, without so much as a knock.  
  
Sherlock is not happy to see him; he knows all too well what his brother is going to say. Sherlock is ready to throw him out at any second.  
  
The elder Holmes thinks better to leave out the small talk.  
  
"Sherlock, you can't go on like this. It's not getting better and you're making it worse."  
  
"It's none of your business," enunciates Sherlock, the irises of his eyes darkening as he's overcome with sudden anger.  
  
"On the contrary. John needs the proper medical care, do you understand? He needs to undergo a long examination, to have the dynamics of his memory changes monitored."  
  
"No. He won't go to hospital."  
  
"Why not? That won't cause any psychological trauma. He remembers the explosion, so he'll find it perfectly normal to be in the hospital."  
  
"No."  
  
Mycroft's surprised face acquires a slightly squeamish expression.  
  
"Why are you so stubborn? I'll give you the best specialists myself. Watson is only a burden in a condition like his and he'll only hinder your investigations. You can't even leave him for one day."  
  
Mycroft and Sherlock stand very close to each other as the older brother watches Sherlock's cheekbones whiten, a muscle there shakes in a transient motion.  
  
The next moment he feels the detective's fist crashing onto his face.  
  
Sherlock's movements are too sharp and measured to notice them in advance.  
  
  The punch is painful enough, though.

— o —

Sometimes when the current case allows, Sherlock brings John with him. But only if he has everything under control and there's just one last operation to deal with – not dangerous, but something of a culmination point. He won't risk his friend's life under any circumstances. Besides, John is still alive. John is not defective, he's just sick. He is by no means to be deprived of any events whatsoever. If there is only one day for John Watson, let it be worthwhile at least sometimes.  
  
"Are you insane?" Lestrade hisses at his back just as overly emotional Donovan echoes the Detective Inspector's exact question. The squally autumn wind swallows their words, but Sherlock hears all of it anyway. "Why are you bringing him with you?"  
  
"He's my colleague. Which part of that escapes your understanding?"  
  
"But it's humiliating!"  
  
"Do you want me to keep him at home at all times, like a mentally ill person?" His eyebrows shoot up with such contempt that it leaves both of them speechless.  
  
"No, but–"  
  
"Then do shut up, both of you."  
  
"Heartless idiot," mutters Donovan.  
  
 _Whatever. What the hell do they understand anyway?_  
  
  Turning around, Sherlock goes back to John. Now he's always at his side.

— o —

 Going against his habits, Sherlock explains to John all bits and pieces of a case down to the last detail, restraining himself from his usual "John, you're an idiot! It's obvious." John is not an idiot. It's not his fault.  
  
John's brain has to function. A case might stimulate some extra thinking.  
  
John still admires him. It adds to the torture.  
  
John is still the same as he always has been. He behaves exactly as it behooves him to.  
  
John still goes grocery shopping, shouts abuse at machines and forgets to buy himself medicine. He can't come to terms with the fact that he has a neurological condition. He thinks he's in perfect health.  
  
John still doesn't remember anything.  
  
Sherlock buys his medicine for him.

— o —

 "Oh my god, Sherlock, what is it, the end of the world?"  
  
"What's the matter, John?"  
  
"London's covered in snow! How is it possible? And over one night?"  
  
Sherlock sends a fleeting glance at the doctor, whose face expresses the undisguised astonishment. John is in his nightwear. Which means that he woke up and, upon seeing the snowfall, went straight downstairs without changing. Without looking at the notes.  
  
Sherlock has to explain everything himself.  
  
He purses his lips.  
  
He hates these mornings.

— o —

Sherlock notices at once that John's memory takes a backward leap only after he falls asleep. A deep, sound sleep. The daytime drowsiness never has this effect.  
  
When his friend's condition stays unchanged for more than a month, Sherlock starts looking for some other mechanisms of John's cognitive functions. Will his memory disappear if the doctor goes without sleep for the whole of twenty four hours of the day? Or two days? What if he adds some adrenaline buzz, or an emotional one? What if he wakes John up before his brain slips into the phase of deep sleep and starts processing the data? He needs to define at what exact moment his memory wipes the slate clean. He needs to break this sequence.  
  
Sherlock chooses the investigation which includes a lot of legwork and a bit of danger for good measure. The illusion of risk, more likely, but enough to make John's blood boil up.  
  
They spend the entire night running around the city without a moment's recess. John's memory is alright. They come back in the morning, at six o'clock, and John falls onto his bed, exhausted to his very bones.  
  
He wakes up in the bloody October.  
  
Pointless.  
  
A timespan of forty eight hours spent awake doesn't yield any fruit either.  
  
Pointless.  
  
Then Sherlock decides to perform an experiment with the sleep phases. On that very day John is swept with yet another wave of depression. He sits on the settee reading a book.  
  
The book he's going to forget by tomorrow.  
  
It's not that he's reading it, strictly speaking, more like just looking at it and changing pages from time to time. He needs something to make his hands busy.  
  
Sitting in front of the fireplace, Sherlock performs Paganini's violin concerto No.1. He plays for John, although, of course, John doesn't know about it.

— o —

 The wall clock chimes two a.m., and Sherlock stops playing the violin, yet John doesn't move. The book is left open on his lap, his head leaning against the settee's back. He seems to be sound asleep.  
  
Sherlock comes up closer. He's lucky – it's the REM sleep stage, and John's eyeballs move behind his eyelids, his fingers trembling just the slightest bit on the blue binding of the book. Unmoving, the detective watches in rapt attention not to miss the phase change.  
  
He looks at the notes, still pinned to John's home pullover.  
  
He watches the lamp light throw shades across his friend's face.  
  
He looks at the veins, visible on his friend's wrists.  
  
At his silhouette, at his neck in the round collar.  
  
At the letters on the open pages.  
  
There comes the rattling sound of wind blowing against the iron window ledge. It's quiet and chilly outside.  
  
The clock ticks in a rhythmic, ear-splitting chime.  
  
John's body seems relaxed, his eyelashes stop moving, and Sherlock knows it's time to wake him up. At that very second, otherwise he'll miss the right moment.  
  
Leaning forward, he carefully shakes John's shoulder. Slowly, John opens his eyes.  
  
Sherlock is close; he sees the heavy tiredness tugging at his doctor's eyes.  
  
"You fell asleep, John." Not pulling away, not a millimetre, his voice low.  
  
"I know." A moment later John averts his look and turns his head to the right side, his cheek brushing the settee's upholster. "I don't want to go into my room. It's empty."  
  
Sherlock doesn't say anything. His right hand still having a hold of John's shoulder, Sherlock takes his chin lightly with the fingertips of his left. He has an insane thought balancing on nothing more than an irrational hunch that if he doesn't let John fall asleep, it's all going to be fine.  
  
Then, he kisses him.  
  
In the doctor's eyes Sherlock notices this desperate want for making all of it worth something, for bringing some sense into it.  
  
 _I'll give you sense._  
  
John lingers just for one second until he moves forward, not closing his eyes. They both maintain the eye contact, and Sherlock cups John's face in the palms of his hands while John slides his arms around the detective, pulling him closer by the waist.  
  
John's movements are sharp, convulsive movements of doomed. Sherlock's are the same.  
  
The settee is too small; clothes are taken off and thrown away, each and every moment of the undressing followed by a touch of skin. John's lips are pure sorrow; Sherlock's hands are desperation itself.  
  
A bit closer.  
  
 _More._  
  
Sense.  
  
 _Here it is._  
  
 _Take it._

— o —

Later John catches a glimpse of a rectangular piece of paper with "anterograde amnesia" written across. It must have fallen onto the floor and now is right within the scope of his eyesight.  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
The curly head is in the crook of his arm turns to look at him.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"I'm going to forget about it tomorrow, aren't I?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I don't want to. "  
  
"I know."  
  
In the end, John falls asleep.  
  
Pointless.  
  
London is still blanketed with snow.

— o —

The 22nd of October meets John Watson as he wakes up on the settee in the living room. What's that about? The last thing he remembers is the ceiling crashing right onto his head, everything around him collapse, and the floor underneath him crack open. He aches all over, but not as he would after a similar wound.  
  
Sherlock is not there. Next to himself, John notices a neat pile of clothes and a batch of papers lying atop. He flips them over, carefully looking through. He shakes his head in disbelief. An incident? An explosion? Amnesia? God, it just can't be. The 18th of December? How's that even possible? "Read your blog." Yes, that's exactly what he must do, and right away. Why he woke up naked in the living room is going to be the next thing on the agenda.  
  
He steps into the kitchenalready dressed. Had he a proper shirt, he would've buttoned it up to his throat. Sherlock is at the table with his laptop, swiftly clicking on the touchpad. The detective's look flits across the screen, filled with miniscule type.  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Why did I wake up in the living room?"  
  
"You fell asleep in the chair yesterday. I didn't experience the slightest urge to carry you all the way up to your room so I had to move you onto the settee."  
  
"And waking me up was out of question?"  
  
"I tried to. You were rather dozy."  
  
"And you had to undress me, too?"  
  
"A bit odd sleeping fully clothed, don't you think?"  
  
"Yes, but naked? Could've spared my underwear, at least!" John is suddenly flushed at thinking that his friend saw him in his birthday suit.  
  
"Skin needs to breathe. You should know better, being a doctor and all."  
  
"That's not a good argument."  
  
Sherlock shrugs, his eyes not leaving the laptop screen. He doesn't behave out of the ordinary, and John's vague suspicions seem to be assuaged by his friend's nonchalance.  
  
John wants to make tea and have breakfast, but first off he turns on his own laptop and opens his blog.  
  
It's ten pages from the 22nd of October and forth.  
  
Such a long way to go.

— o —

 "My mobile phone seems to be out of order."  
  
"Why so?"  
  
"It says the 2nd of January. Today is the 22nd of October."  
  
Approaching him slowly, Sherlock extends his hand.  
  
"Give it to me. I'll take it to the repairman."  
  
"You? Since when are you so full of kindness?" asks John, meaning no offense and honestly amazed.  
  
"It's on my way," answers Sherlock in a low voice. He's lying. The repair shop is not on his way. But he can't bear telling his friend the entire thing yet again.  
  
Today, let only the phone be broken. Not John.

— o —

Sherlock takes John to the hospital for check-ups. He does it every second month. The procedures require a couple of days, and every new morning John wakes up and asks if Sherlock is alright.  
  
John is worried. He always thinks the incident was just yesterday. He thinks he is there because of the explosion.  
  
He's absolutely right.

Only he doesn't know where the cause and consequence are.

— o —

'Chances of improvement are slim.'  
  
Sherlock's face is tense with restrained fury. Every time it's the same thing, over and over again. It's useless. It's necessary.  
  
'The damage to his brain is likely to be irreversible.'  
  
The human memory is the most mysterious side of the human psyche. He's long since calculated that chances become less and less real.  
  
But he doesn't want to see any proof of that.

— o —

Once, as winter is coming to an end, Sarah comes by. She and John go to sit in the kitchen. John makes her a cup of tea, takes biscuits out of the fridge and they have a long talk. What they're saying doesn't reach Sherlock's ears.  
  
Sarah knows, of course.  
  
Only by pure luck the 22nd of October was the weekend, and John doesn't rush to his work at the hospital.  
  
Sarah knows. And when she asks John not to see her off home, buttoning her coat in the dimly lit hall, tears come down on the furry sleeve. Brushing her eyes with the tip of her scarf, she comes back in the living room where Sherlock is working a case.  
  
He looks up, and Sarah asks him, in a barely audible voice so that John doesn't hear her from the kitchen.  
  
"How are you even doing this?"  
  
 Predictably, Sherlock doesn't utter a word.

— o —

Leaning against the windowsill, Sherlock sends wreaths of smoke through the open sash. Spring has come.  
  
It's foggy outside and almost warm.  
  
It's five a.m.  
  
There's a creaking sound of the staircase boards behind him. John leans his shoulder against the wall beside the window, folds his arms and asks:  
  
"How's your case coming along, Sherlock? Drawn any conclusions?"  
  
The detective throws away his fag, looks to his side and finds John's calm eyes. His pupils are teeming with the long lost composure.  
  
John was sleeping, right?  
  
The doctor nods.  
  
"Yes, Sherlock. I remember."

— o —

Sherlock Holmes wakes up from a dream. If he knew how to pray, he would've asked for that dream to be prophetic. But he doesn't, and he considers prayers an utter nonsense anyway.  
  
That's why he just comes up to the window and lights a cigarette.  
  
It's spring here, in London.  
  
It's five a.m.

  
**FIN**


End file.
